Beyond shrouded windows, the day was dim and soot-streaked, cast in the bruised light of a sky still troubled by smoke. The City of the Kings, so long unyielding in stone and pride, now wept openly from a hundred wounds. Its towers fractured, its shattered gates gaping wide.
Faramir lay half-propped in a great carven bed, his body sunk into pale linen like a body laid out for sepulture, though his chest yet rose and fell, each breath shallow and slow. He had known fever and fire and the black clasp of death’s shadow – he had wandered half-willing in the borderlands of Mandos, where voices he could not name had murmured of sleep eternal and unshaken peace. He had heard weeping in those fields and turned back.
It was in this twilight of sense that the door opened.
He did not turn his head. The air changed – did not stir, but changed – as if a great weight of memory had stepped into the room. Faramir knew, before he saw, that the shadow in the doorway bore the shape of the fallen tower of his life.
At first he seemed a spectre, but no, his figure did not flicker.
How wrong the world became for the space of a single breath, for his beloved brother had died. The horns had blown for him. The river had borne his broken form away like a silver bier, and songs had been sung beneath the vaults of their house. The dead did not come back, not in flesh. Not bearing the dust of travel, nor the cold light of sorrow in their gaze.
Lips parted, but he did not cry out. It was as if the breath had been struck from his chest anew. His brother stood there, tall as ever, though the light of old wrath no longer burned so brightly. What dwelt there now was stranger, wearier. The cloak he wore was rough and weather-stained, and his hair unbraided, as though he had come not from the field of battle but from exile.
Faramir reached a trembling hand, his fingers curling faintly, as though to beckon, to beg.
“I should have known,” he murmured, his voice hoarse, cracked almost beyond use. “Had you gone beyond my reach, I would have known.”
In the shadow of the Rammas Echor's south gate he surveyed the carnage. Bodies of men, orcs, and beasts had turned the golden fields dark with ash and blood. Machines of war stood silent, their giant arms pointing towards the city. His city.
Minas Tirith remained standing, but not without new scars of her own. Boromir absentmindedly set his hand over his chest where his were still healing. Underneath the borrowed tunic the rough linen crossed over his chest and abdomen. Even though she argued against it, Ealith had done her best to prepare him for the journey.
Slowly, the son of Gondor guided his horse across the battlefield, toward a home he had believed he would never see again. As he passed through the shattered gates, no one hailed or even recognized him. Countless strangers had flowed in and out of the city since the battle's end. He was simply one more poor soul.
With every tier he climbed, the disturbing sights multiplied, and fear ignited within him, burning steadily until he came face to face with a citadel guard. "What news of the steward and his son, Faramir?" The command had left his voice, replaced by a ragged hoarseness. The guard looked at him questioningly before telling him of the passing of Denethor and the grievous wounding of Faramir.
Worse than the bite of any arrow was the guard's tidings. All breath had vacated, leaving him unable to say anything except nod and wheel the horse back down the ramp to the sixth tier and the Houses.
To whatever ancient deity deigned to bargain with mortal men, Boromir began to silently plead. He would endure any hardship, offer any sacrifice, if only Faramir might live. He would dwell in exile, a hermit of the forgotten woods, clad in pauper's rags, if it meant his brother would draw breath for years yet. He would even brand himself a coward, if it ensured Faramir's life. No price was too great.
Upon reaching the Houses of Healing, it took but a breath to inquire after Faramir, and even less time to reach the door. There, he paused, a heartbeat of dread, to fortify himself against whatever lay within before opening the door.
His shoulders slumped at the sight. Faramir could have been an effigy placed next to their mother if not for the movement of his hand. With unsteady steps, Boromir drew near, collapsing to his knees beside the bed. The impact sent a jolt through his fresh stitches, but the pain was lost, drowned by the shattering of his heart. Their cold hands clasped, a firm touch against the lingering fear that this was only a dream.
"I promised to return to you, little brother. Not even Mandos's halls could keep me from your side."
